it's like this: I don't do mainstream media relations because 1.) I never liked it and 2.) I don't have access to my former network of agency-day MSM contacts (read: the thing that takes $3K/month access to media map and other media-access engines to maintain because people move all over the place and fold and startup and etc.).

Sidebar: These closed members-only systems are the SINGLE BIGGEST remaining competitive advantage of BigPR cos over independent ex-agency pros--hey, that's what you're paying pay them $225/hr. for. That and their lawyers. (p.s., not to worry, me and a few buds are working on breaking that barrier...but that's another post for another day).

SO ANYWAY.

In the mean time, I must get two golden opportunities every month for freelance media relations folks -- especially tech and healthcare -- that I can't source. This is the old-school media relations work that all PR people say they can do but only the pros are good at.

Send me your links, your results, your contact info, and talk to me so that I can refer you. Our mutual reputations depend on you being good at what you do (you know, even tech folks want the cover of Business Week and that spot on Oprah ;-) ). But they'll all settle for some ink.

NO BIG PR COS NEED APPLY. Everyone who can afford you already knows who you are. Jeremy,Steve and (best for last) Constantin, when you decide it's really not better inside, you are welcome to reapply.

Okay, now that I've told too many PR secrets for one day, I'm off to do the less glamorous work...

April 13, 2006

Stop pretending as though hazing isn't condoned or tolerated because it is. Every black fraternity I know of has a ridiculous process, one where getting beaten is just par for the course. Lines are "underground," but everybody knows the deal. I'm tired of these organizations and schools pretending like they don't know what goes on during pledging processes because they do. In fact, many university administrators endured these same processes themselves, so they're just trying to piss on my head under the guise or rain when they say they don't tolerate this stuff. Schools have spent years turning blind eyes to students walking around like zombies because they don't get sleep, probate shows where the neos wear shades to cover the bruises on their faces, kids walking around with limps and hair that hasn't been cut in weeks and kids going ghost from class for weeks because they can't be seen in their physical conditions because it would give away that they're on line.

all this time the sweet little blogger's group i started on flickr back in 1923, back before Stewart and Caterina splashed across the cover of Time Magazine (or was it Newsweek? and does it matter?), had been in the top 10 flickr group list, with more than 6,000 members and a long-running era of success.

Suckass admin that I am, i missed my ENTIRE ERA of glory, and now we have drifted down to 12 or something. Replaced by 'grandmas in polyester pants' or something--i really didn't notice.

WTHOOEY! (me spitting)

THAT WILL NOT STAND.

Not in these times of TERROR and TERRORISM and NUCLEAR PROLIFERATION and THREATS and BIRD FLEWs.

YOU can do your part to do what's right and do your duty by day and night.

That's RIGHT: only you.

YOU can help get our group back on the Flickr top 10 list and become a flickr-uper in my life.

p.s., yah i know i said i was quitting flickr because of their stupid community guidelines but a friend in an influential place told me to stay and beat the system from the inside. plus i think i yelled enough that they haven't done anything stupid with the stupid rules.

just think what we could do with a top 10 group full of bloggers. heh.

im up to 2002, july. got a long way to go. unearthing what makes me tick. going unpro. find grind unwind. steel and cotton, rotten broken sliced and found. that's where i'm going with this place. Over here, the less abstract, but me still. spinoffs r fun. we go so fast. we blow so hard. we'll see what happens.

it was so quiet.i said, can i go outside and play?she said, no, we are mourning.i said, what is mourning?she said, what you do when someone dies.i said, stay inside?she said, it shows respect for your father.i said, then can i go next door and play with debbi?she said, no.i said, because of mourning?she, yes.i said, is debbi in mourning?she said, no, just our family.

If he were there i would saycan i go outside and play?he'd say play what?i'd say, I want to look for acorns in the pasture.he'd say, what kind?i'd say, whole ones, not cracked ones.he'd say, what will you do with them?i'd say, put them in my box. i want to show debbi.he'd say, look under the tall tree in the back corner, by the fence we fixed right before your birthday.i'd say, did you see some there?he'd say, at least 100 of them.i'd say, Really?! i'll need a pail. I'll bring them to show you!he'd say, go on now and bring back some for debbi too.

Offline for four days, or was it five? I'm re-amazed every time how easily I adapt to a world sans net. Sans keyboard. Sans even writing. Especially when I go to Rochester, where, except for the weather, life is simpler than it is here in the megalopolis of atlanta.

The first funniest part is driving. How in other places, people work together on a highway to make sure no one dies. How in Atlanta, it's you versus me, and if I don't look in my rear-view mirror, it doesn't count if what I do kills you.

I was telling george, it's like the motto of Rochester in all things is: We do our job. On the highways, in the schools, shoveling snow, work, shopping, cooking, whatever. It is an industrial age town caught in time between how things were and how things are. I don't know what will happen to a place that has lost so many jobs from defections of Kodak, Xerox, and Baush & Lomb and soon General Motors that the University of Rochester is now the largest employer. But when you've lived in hyperthrillville of "the city that doesn't hate" (now: "every day is an opening day") for a dozen years, feeling good about getting by and surviving another blizzard sounds kind of nice.

I visited my dad's grave for the first time in a decade. My grandmother's for the first time ever. They're together in the family plot. I hadn't seen the big stone with her name on it. I try not to fill in the the name for the remaining spot in my head, the empty one. Never mind.

----

My dad's headstone is overgrown with grass, clumped around the edges so you might miss his stone altogether, one solid clump of sleeping winter green covering up the cross at the top of the headstone.

I don't understand. Look around: The Tomaselli's are so well groomed, and the Fischers. Maybe it's the family's job. With all the death and dying, I forgot to learn who manicures the headstone. I think that job has been bought and paid for.

Whatever--I cry.

I have no tools. I'm a tourist.

But I have the key to the PT Cruiser rental car in my hand. That's all, except for the Kleenex, which is soaked and yellowed now.

Kneeling, I use the key to dig, a crude edger carving a path around marble, shove my fingers deep until I feel the stone's edge, and pull away dirt, grass, clumps. Three more sides to go.

The grooves in the key fill with dirt. I don't care.

When I finish, I see the grave of someone dead too long.

Family doesn't come often. The least visited is the least tended to.

My uneven uncovering of unforgiving marble makes this all the more obvious.

The dampness remains on the stone too long covered.

I brush away twigs and broken limbs, collect two pinecones to bring home, and say I love you still.